


What's Mine Is

by plumtrees



Series: UshiShira Week 2017 [5]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Anal Sex, Hair-pulling, M/M, Rimming, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9389144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumtrees/pseuds/plumtrees
Summary: Day 5 for UshiShira Week: Lyrical+After Hours-“What is your secret to success?” the interviewer asks, voice colored with genuine interest. Shirabu holds the eyeroll, reminding himself that they’re being filmed. Instead he shrugs, casual and lazy.“Don’t sleep with the models.” He jokes easily, and the interviewer’s eyes curve in delight, laughing behind a graceful hand with its long, manicured nails.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [n3ongold3n](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n3ongold3n/gifts).



> Another early fic post. Also a gift to a friend! <3
> 
> N!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY (belated, so sorry I missed it, I was sick T_T)!! Thank you so much for being such an amazing friend these past few months. I really appreciate all the tumblr posts you share and all the fandom/character insights you have. I really hope you're happy and doing well, and know that I'm always always here to talk if you need anyone. YOU ARE A BEAUTIFUL, SMART, LOYAL, GRATEFUL, AMAZING STARFISH.
> 
> Here have bottom!Ushi :3c

“What is your secret to success?” the interviewer asks, voice colored with genuine interest. Shirabu holds the eyeroll, reminding himself that they’re being filmed. Instead he shrugs, casual and lazy.

“Don’t sleep with the models.” He jokes easily, and the interviewer’s eyes curve in delight, laughing behind a graceful hand with its long, manicured nails.

As a photographer, Shirabu’s job basically dictates that his place is _behind_ the camera. But for a man of his stature, TV appearances and magazine interviews are commonplace. Even now, eight months after he became the top photographer for HuGE, the fashion industry still has its eye on him. They think he’s a genius. A prodigy. Shirabu doesn’t have the heart to tell them how much he hates those words.

At 25, he’s the youngest to ever hold the position. He’s worked many long years for it, and in a country where ageism runs rampant in every niche and corner, the fact that the title is printed on his business card is a miracle in and of itself. Despite that, Shirabu knows there are already people working underhandedly to dig up anything that’ll get him kicked off ASAP. Any scandals. Any crime records. Even just a photo of him tossing a cigarette butt into the curb. Fuck them. Shirabu didn’t waste his youth and leave his home in Miyagi just to be ousted in his prime, and he didn’t get to where he is now by being careless.

The interview ends after a few more dry (and utterly unoriginal, honestly, the answers to some of these could be found in a magazine published just two months ago) questions and Shirabu immediately heads off to his next appointment, a more obvious spring to his step.

Honestly, the job has a lot of unnecessary hassle. Along with the interviews and the TV appearances, he even has paparazzi following him around (though Semi had already promised those weretaken care of), and since that fucking article about _25 Photographers who are also Model Material_ went viral, he’d been forced to go around wearing a mask, lest he run the risk of being stopped in the middle of the street for a photo or an autograph. Given, it was flattering, but he did _not_ need the flurry of teenagers (and the occasional old man) flooding his social media with their shallow comments.

But besides all that, he loves his job. He loves meeting beautiful people and enhancing their natural gifts with lighting, with makeup, with atmosphere and colors and the settings of his camera. He loves seeing his photos blown up and spread all over Japan; on billboards, on magazines, plastered on the subway walls in Shibuya. He loves it when he gets a follow-up call from the agency or the model praising him for his work. He loves the sight of a fully-booked week, with concept-building meetings and photoshoots, lunch and dinner meetings. 

Of course, in all his years as a photographer he’s met more than his fair share of godlike beauty, people so unbelievably perfect it nearly got Shirabu believing in religion, but even with the very long list of models he’s worked and re-worked with, he has his own personal favorites.

He steps into the little corner of Rikugi-en that’s closed off for the editorial, already bustling with pre-photoshoot prep. He cleanly went through the motions of checking the equipment, reviewing the setup, doing a few test shots of the scenery before giving feedback to the directors and staff. 

While they adjust the equipment based on his instructions, he sneaks off into the white tent at the far end of the site, just behind a few trees. He peels back the tarp and everyone inside immediately turns, except for the man sitting in a chair, bangs clipped back and half of his face smeared with foundation.

“Shirabu-san.” Ushijima meets his eyes from the mirror, bowing. “Thank you for having me today.”

 

-

 

It really isn’t just because of his—admittedly amazing—body. Ushijima holds professionalism and poise and _basic manners_ that you don’t find in a man with more than 20 fashion shows (opening 4) and more than a hundred ad campaigns under his belt at the age of 27. Most people in Ushijima’s league have already been blinded and spoiled by luxury, always looking down at people from the high arch of their noses, eyes cold and lips curled into a sneer, like they had much better places to be. Ushijima, on the other hand is refreshingly polite, always bowing a perfect 45 degrees to everyone on set, always dishing out deep, heartfelt _Please take good care of me_ and _let’s work hard today_.

And don’t even get Shirabu started on how he is on set because _damn_ those five hours aren’t nearly enough. In a good way.

“Angle your head up a little bit, Ushijima-san.” Shirabu calls out, and Ushijima obeys, on point as always. “Good, just like that.” He says, and takes three photos.

They’re utilizing Rikugi-en’s autumn colors for this shoot, the warm reds and oranges blending well with the olive green of Ushijima’s hair, the fine tan on his skin. He’s modelling for Sato Emiko and Kitazawa Takeshi’s new line, mostly dark colors and sophisticated layers, with the added grunge of criss-crossing belts and sweaters with cuts and patches.

Ushijima wears everything to perfection, as if every piece was tailored for his grand 189.5cm frame. The trousers embrace his legs, emphasizing the generous curves all the way up to his waist. Very rarely does Shirabu witness anyone look fine in long coats (the heavy fabric completely draping over curves and leaving a flat, boring silhouette) but Ushijima manages to work it to his advantage; making himself look taller, tugging back one side to shove his hand in his trouser pocket, creating an intriguing asymmetry while still selling every piece of clothing he’s being paid to model.

“Try leaning on the tree.” He says, and Ushijima does so promptly, already adjusting himself into a pose without guidance. And just like that, Shirabu doesn’t even have to make any adjustments before he’s snapping away, perfectly happy.

 

-

 

Shirabu admits that maybe his work is the main reason he’s still single, for all the reasons people assume: because he never really has free time; because meeting otherworldly beauties on the daily may have raised his standards impossibly high; because he’s _is_ still relatively young and at the peak of his career so settling down is the farthest thing in his mind right now.

But the real reason for that is right here, sitting on the hotel couch and sipping Dom Pérignon in nothing but a bathrobe.

The photoshoot ended just two hours ago. They left the site on separate vehicles, but as per their usual trysts, they met here in Reon’s hotel, where the staff are quiet and the CCTVs are meticulously edited after every visit.

He knows that it’ll be his and Ushijima’s ruin, if anyone were to find out that they’re “dating” (Shirabu shudders at the term, but he can’t really find another that fits, so it’ll have to do). Ushijima already had his shot at an explosive kind of fame, appearing in worldwide ads and being stalked and chased by his bolder “fans”, but now, five years in the industry, while things have calmed down a bit for him, he is still no less breathtaking. His looks, his height, his well-sculpted body still land him enough bookings to sustain a lifestyle far grander than what he currently abides by. There’s so many layers to their relationship that the press will make field days of: the fact that his photos help keep Ushijima hot and relevant, the fact that he “absently” recommends Ushijima’s name to any fashion designers he has lunch meetings with, the fact that he’s currently HuGE’s head photographer and that Ushijima is the muse and fantasy of so many people, the fact that they’re both _men_.

Honestly, the thought makes him tremble sometimes, keeps him awake until the unholy hours of the morning, staring at the draft of a half-hearted, drunken _let’s stop seeing each other_ text that he never manages to send, even when he used to do this so callously to so many models before Ushijima.

Maybe part of it is selfishness. Maybe part of it is fear. Ushijima is a drug, far too exhilarating and far too delicious to abstain from. He doesn’t delude himself into thinking that he’s loved in return, or that they’re exclusive, even though he himself never sleeps with anyone else, even though he knows for a fact that Ushijima hasn’t been dating anyone since he stepped into the public eye, four years ago. 

The sex is enough. Shirabu’s fine with just that.

Or at least, he used to be.

He looks up when music starts to play. A slow, classic kind of tune. Someone sings, male, high and nasal. English. It sounds sad. It sounds right up Ushijima’s alley, really.

He tries to smile when Ushijima comes up to him, another freshly-poured champagne flute held delicately in his large hands.

“You’re tense.”

Shirabu smirks, takes the glass and twists the stem of his flute in childish flirtation. “Help me unwind then?”

A smile bursts out of Ushijima, one of those rare ones barely ever seen outside of photoshoots, and he’s rewarded with a kiss, sweet and sharp from the traces of alcohol on Ushijima’s lips. Sometimes Shirabu wonders when their nightly fucks turned into something so soft, so domestic, when he started wanting more than Ushijima’s body.

He pulls away from the kiss and takes a slow sip of champagne, letting the fizz calm his frazzled nerves. Ushijima sidles behind him, hands crawling up his front and plucking buttons open, pulling his top back until his lips can close around skin. He nips enough to thrill, but never to leave marks, licking along the curve of his shoulder, the junction of his neck, kissing over the bone of his jaw, under his ear.

He puts the glass down on a table before turning to kiss Ushijima, mouth open and ready for his tongue. It slides right in, gliding across his own. He reaches up and sinks his fingers into his hair, digs his nails into his scalp, the only place he can leave traces of himself on the canvas of Ushijima’s body. Shirabu wants to ruin him, mark him and own him in all the ways he can, but he knows better than that.

So he distracts himself with the music, hand dragging from Ushijima’s wrists to his toned forearms in time with the singer’s long note. Ushijima’s fingers are already working under his shirt, cupping his pecs, tenderly thumbing over his nipples as if he’s a woman. Ushijima whines, low and nearly just a breath, but Shirabu catches it perfectly, reaching back and down to give him what he wants.

The robe parts with ease, and Shirabu blindly lowers the boxers underneath to free Ushijima’s erection. It throbs in his hands, already wet at the slit. He reaches a little lower, the tips of his fingers pressing at the base, against his balls drawn tight into his skin. He traces firm circle around them, reveling in the quick shift of Ushijima’s breaths. Ragged. Broken. Even the once-steady play of his fingers on Shirabu’s skin stutter into meaninglessness.

“Get on the bed. On your knees.” Shirabu says, not unlike how he gives instructions on set. This isn’t lost on Ushijima either, if the sudden jerk of his cock is anything to go by.

He obeys easily, strong and predatory even in such a submissive position. The music in the background is nothing more than piano and percussion, and Shirabu watches as Ushijima moves unconsciously with it, a symphony in the grace of his limbs.

Shirabu takes his time removing the rest of his clothes as he follows. He makes a show of tossing his shirt, his trousers, his socks within Ushijima’s line of sight. He tenses every step of the way, sweat beading along the trenches of his body in obvious anticipation. He remembers the first time he ever peeled off all of Ushijima’s layers; all his coldness and indifference and stoicism to reveal a man hungry to be violated, hungry for all the different thrills and pleasures sex can offer. The darling of Japan’s fashion industry; nothing more than a depraved slut.

Shirabu ducks his head, keeping his breath heavy and harsh as he lines his mouth up over Ushijima’s entrance. He trembles at the warning. He’s sensitive, hairless; freshly shaven for an underwear catalogue he did just yesterday. His skin smells of soap, a little red from the hot water of the bath, from being scrubbed down. Shirabu buries his face in the cleft, breathes, then darts his tongue out for a long, slow lick.

Ushijima groans, instinctively leaning back for more. Shirabu complies. The pucker gives easily, soft and elastic, like he’d been stretched already. Shirabu’s cock twitches at the thought of Ushijima fingering himself in the bathroom while Shirabu was on his way, maybe even while Shirabu was already in the hotel room.

“Ushijima-san.” Shirabu hisses, fighting to hold his teeth back. “You really want my cock that much? Did you think of me while you had your fingers in you?”

He slides a thumb down to press on Ushijima’s perineum, the sound causing whatever response he had to drop back down to his throat, aborted by a choked moan. 

Shirabu straightens, takes his cock in one hand, reaching for the packet of lube he’d pulled from his pocket and dropped onto the sheets. He slicks his cock up, already at full hardness, red and impatient. He hasn’t had Ushijima in so long, and his body is aching to reunite with him. His hand shoots out and grabs Ushijima by the hair, pulling his head back, the skin of his nape bunching up with the strain. The moment the head kisses Ushijima’s entrance, it’s like he holds his breath. And Shirabu smirks, waits for the music’s cue, then pushes in just as the vocalist sings, muting Ushijima’s scream.

He keeps his hand clenched tight, tugging on the entry, loving how the pain unconsciously causes Ushijima to tighten up. He’s trembling. Shirabu wishes he can see his face right now, but the view almost makes up for it.

Ushijima has never been shy with his body, doing tasteful nude shots for high-fashion editorials, for shoots meant for societal commentary. Almost all of Ushijima’s body has been seen by the world, but this, Ushijima pliant and submissive beneath him, his back muscles tensing and catching light and shadow beautifully with Shirabu’s every entry…

This is his only.

He kisses the valley between Ushijima’s shoulder blades as he continues to thrust. Ushijima is hot inside, his walls pulsing and slick and _tight_.

“Shirabu.” He chokes out, formalities slipping, voice usually so deep and professional and monotone now unbelievably wrecked. “Shirabu please.”

Well, he asked nicely.

Shirabu slides his free hand from Ushijima’s hip to his cock, squeezing at the shaft, thumbing the head, deliciously wet and leaking. He keeps a tight fist around it and lets Ushijima’s hips buck between his cock and his hand, alternating the motions, eating up his gasps and moans as they increase in frequency and pitch, utterly breathless.

Ushijima squeezes around him in orgasm, body jerking with the last of the built-up heat.

It’s almost enough. It’s almost all he needs, but what pushes him over is Ushijima turning his head, peeking over his shoulder just enough and treating him to a view of those hooded eyes, that red-bitten bottom lip, hips weakly pushing back to help him along.

 _Come, Shirabu-san_ the bastard mouths.

He spills inside Ushijima with his hand still clenched in his hair, Ushijima’s last moan and the music ringing in his ears.

 

-

 

“What time do you need to leave tomorrow?”

“Early.” Shirabu murmurs, licking his lips, itching for a cigarette. “You?”

“I am booked for a night shoot.” Oh. Well that explains why he didn’t protest when Shirabu was being so rough. “They only need me on set at 5PM.”

Shirabu hums in acknowledgement. Ushijima’s eyes are already slipping shut beside him, and Shirabu lets him cling, moves with him when he pulls him against his chest like a childhood stuffed animal, listening for his breathing until it evened out into the rhythm of sleep.

Who knows. Maybe one day Ushijima will find another, more influential photographer to play this game with. Maybe soon he’ll find himself a nice woman to settle down with. Certainly there aren’t any shortage of women elbowing their way into Ushijima’s space. So many magazines have named him one of the top eligible bachelors in the country. He’s a kind, polite gentleman in the public eye. Who would say no to that?

But for now...for now Shirabu will continue taking what he can get. Continue this fucking power trip at the idea that Ushijima keeps coming back to him, that he’s the only one who can keep up with and satisfy Ushijima like this.

Just him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello guys, [UshiShira Week 2017](http://ushishiraweek.tumblr.com) is happening on **Feb 5-11**! Please do consider participating if you ship/raft/luxury cruise UshiShira!
> 
>  
> 
> [plumtreeforest.tumblr.com](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com)


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